


in the cathedrals

by orphan_account



Category: Super Junior
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-04
Updated: 2012-08-04
Packaged: 2017-11-11 09:59:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/477303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faith, the building of a relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the cathedrals

It hits Yesung very suddenly, like the jolting slam your heart makes when you first see the creature slowly unfolding to attack the unsuspecting character in horror movies, like the way your heart stutters when your crush says hey in the hallways, and the contrast between the two isn’t lost on him. He’s half asleep, flank pressing against Ryeowook’s ribcage with every breath and the glass of the window cool on his cheek, the slight bouncing of the van’s shocks lulling him into a stupor, when he just decides.

“Siwon,” he says, sitting up so abruptly Ryeowook half falls into his lap, squeaking in surprise, “Siwon, may I borrow your music player, please.” Siwon turns from where he’s in use as Heechul’s personal masseuse and blinks at him. Yesung pulls his headphones from the jack in his own mp3 player with a brisk tug, and offers the small device to Siwon, outstretched palm. The plastic case is warm from the clench of his hand, and the light blinks steadily, casting a green drop in the space between his thumb and his index finger.

Siwon shrugs and digs in a pocket, shifting his hips off the seat to get deeper, and trades music players with Yesung, absently turning back to his conversation with Heechul, who casts Yesung a single sidelong, thoughtful look before responding scornfully to Siwon. Yesung plugs his headphones in, hears the muffled snap as they connect, and scrolls through the song listing once, casually, before clicking shuffle and settling back into his seat.

Something smooth and slow starts up, and it sounds more like a jam between artists than a rehearsed song—Yesung can hear the murmur of a crowd in the background, and when it ends, he goes back and presses repeat.

Ryeowook shakes him awake several minutes later, and Yesung hums jazz all practice long.

 

“Hyung,” Siwon says respectfully, during their goodbyes at the airport, “I made you this,” he says, and passes him a homemade CD in a green paper envelope, which Yesung shoves in a pocket and promptly forgets about.

“Don’t forget about me, over here,” he tells Ryeowook, and maybe holds him a little too tight.

 

“I don’t care,” Heechul says acidly, “get the hell out before I kill you _all_.”

“I just want to borrow it,” Yesung says, disgruntled, “I don’t want to download anything else and Shindong isn’t around right now.”

“Hey,” Kangin says, offended, “what have I done to deserve death?”

“No killing,” Eeteuk says firmly.

“Shut up,” Heechul snaps, and haughtily retrieves a stalk of celery from the fridge before stalking to his room and slamming the door. Yesung turns to Eunhyuk.

“Hey, can I borrow your laptop to call—”

“No.” Eunhyuk says, and wanders off. Yesung turns to Eeteuk and opens his mouth to whine.

“Jongwoon-ah,” Eeteuk says, fingers on his temples, “tomorrow, okay.” Yesung slumps, and goes to sleep early.

 _it’s kind of lonely without you here,_ he writes, and then erases, calls a different friend and goes for drinks and karaoke.

 

“Yesung!” Eeteuk says, looking pissy, “I am not your mother. I am not the maid. Clean your pockets out before doing laundry, I’m tired of finding clutter in the washer.”

“Yes, hyung,” Yesung says, and shuffles over to collect a soggy piece of paper from Eeteuk, surprised to feel a circular plastic object still intact. It’s the CD Siwon had gifted to him the day he left for China, and it has a surprisingly few number of scratches. He dries it off gently, buffs it with his shirt sleeve, and pops it into his computer, curious to see how well it will work.

Most tracks skip and stutter, but the first one that plays well is the one Yesung had liked on the van, the time he borrowed Siwon’s mp3 player. Yesung smiles, suddenly, and finds a few more that survived the tumble of the wash cycle. He’s listening to a haunting clarinet solo that sounds soft and sad and sleepy when Heechul opens the door, looking puzzled.

“That’s Siwon’s music,” he says, and settles into a beanbag chair, pajamas and clean face, brushes his hair out of his face and pins it back.

“Siwon gave it to me,” Yesung says absently, sliding down in his chair and leaning back, eyes drifting shut.

“Is that so,” Heechul says, and his voice is odd.

 

“Heechul says you like the music I gave you,” Siwon says, voice crackling over the connection, smile blurry on the computer’s cheap webcam, “I’m glad.”

“Oh,” Yesung says, startled, “yes, very much. Maybe when you come back you can give me a little more. I’m thinking about writing a song with that kind of feel, that kind of sound.”

“I would like that, hyung,” Siwon says, and his smile widens, “oh, Ryeowook is here now, let me move.” His teeth are very white and very straight, and he dimples at Yesung before moving offscreen to make room for Ryeowook.

“Hyung?” Ryeowook asks, and Yesung refocuses, grins so wide his cheeks hurt, “I’ve missed you.”

 

“Yah,” Heechul says, “I’m not your errand boy or your middleman, so stop taking up all my sms.” Yesung blinks up at him from the couch, puzzled.

“What are you-” he starts, and is cut off as Heechul shoves his screen very close to Yesung’s face. He pulls back, squinting as he tries to read the screen. It’s an American name, and Yesung mouths it carefully, thinks he’s probably saying it horribly, horribly wrong. Heechul yanks it away, eyes slitted, and snarls at him.

“Texting you through me,” he rages, storming off, “as if he texts me enough as it is, his own hyung,” Heechul’s voice fades as he gets farther down the hall, and Yesung tunes it out easily as he opens a new browser window on his laptop.

 

Later, on a whim, a list three pages long on his notebook of songs to download, he texts Siwon a link for an obscure Chinese song, something Ryeowook had sent him a few weeks earlier, emails mp3 files of covers he’s found and bookmarked online, choirs singing Hail Mary and the canting masses in lilting Latin.

 

They come home on a Friday. Yesung and Siwon go to mass on Sunday.

 

He barrages him with questions all the way home, and finally Yesung takes him to a tiny, painfully artistic café and they order tiny cups of bitter coffee and tall cool glasses of tap water.

“I love the music,” Siwon says softly, eyes dreamy. It’s late, now, and Yesung is halfway through a cigarette, smoke spiraling out form the tabletop to form a cloud between them and the rest of the world.

“The piano?” Yesung asks, tossing his cigarette into his coffee cup, where it smokes gently on, curling beneath the rim before wisping away. Siwon shakes his head, reaches for a mint.

“When the priest sung, and then everyone else answered. I like the singing better without the piano.”

“Yes,” Yesung agrees. His cigarette burns out in the cup and their table smells like burnt coffee grounds, the air clears gently.

 

The next week they go to Siwon’s church, and then to breakfast, pancakes and eggs in an American style diner with extra glossy menus and battered silverware. Siwon argues against talking to a priest for absolution in between bites, Yesung adds some coffee to his sugar.

“Why not just cut out the middle man?” Siwon contests earnestly, and Yesung laughs.

“What is this, Siwon, economics?” he says, and steals a bite off Siwon’s plate, smiling.

 

“Doesn’t make sense,” Siwon says again, a week later on the bus home from a late dinner, streetlights and storefronts flashing across the windows in sprays of neon.

“It shouldn’t,” Yesung argues, “what’s the point of faith if it’s all logical?” His shoulder bumps Siwon’s all the way home, rocking gently back and forth with the motion of the bus, like waves on the shore.

 

“Let’s go to the beach,” Siwon says, abruptly, stopping ten feet from the heavy wooden doors of his own church—his week—and suddenly struck with restlessness, feels stifled and odd. Yesung, walking beside him, goes three steps farther before turning back, surprised.

“Playing hooky, Siwon-ah?” he asks. Siwon shifts on his feet, watches a crow swoop down in circles, ever lower. Yesung shrugs. “It’s a bit cold,” he notes neutrally, and zips his jacket up tighter.

“Always next week, hyung,” Siwon says, and turns from the cross on the roof to the faded tin sign of a bus stop.

 

Yesung was right, it’s very cold at the beach. Too windy and unpleasant for tourists or families or even surfers—all Siwon has to do is walk barefoot on the wet sand for the soles of his feet to go numb. Still, they stroll on the sand and wince at the rocks and the shells, and Siwon skips rocks across the water while Yesung sits between kelp strands and buries his toes in the sand. When Siwon comes back from a daring dip in the waves, everything below the ankles numb and his pantlegs damp, Yesung is singing a nursery rhyme in a sing song whisper, gravely and low, voice lilting. 

“Your next solo, hyung?” Siwon teases, and Yesung smiles briefly, topples backwards and lies on the beach, head tilted sideways.

“Come here, Siwon,” he says, and Siwon makes a face, protests weakly about sand everywhere before gingerly settling down onto the beach, squeaks when Yesung drags him all the way down. Yesung’s fingers on his face are dry and cool when they tilt his head the proper way, and Yesung’s beanie is a soft knit brush across his forehead.

They’re looking at the horizon, and Yesung’s eyes are soft and unfocused. He raises a hand and wiggles his fingers into the horizon.

 _I’m touching the future, Siwon-ah,_ he says, and grins sideways at Siwon, and all Siwon can see is the grey of the water against the grey of the sky, and he opens his mouth to say, to say, _you’re silly, hyung—the human eye can see one hundred miles into the horizon—your voice is beautiful—I like spending time with you--_ , but Yesung takes them all from him in a wave of warmth and chapped lips and the taste of salt.

 

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with Jongwoon,” Heechul says from Siwon’s bed, idly toying with the charms on his phone, and Siwon’s fingers freeze on the keyboard of his laptop.

“Yeah?” he asks, and closes the computer with a click, sits on the edge of the bed and plays with Heechul’s hair until he retaliates, long bony fingers digging into his ribs until he flops on top of Heechul and declares victory. He rolls his body weight off but pillows his head on Heechul’s stomach, Heechul shifts to drift his hands through Siwon’s hair, combs out the gel.

“Oh Siwon,” Heechul says, sighing, and Siwon feels his eyes prick and sting.

“Oh Siwon,” Heechul says again, so gently, and Siwon drifts off with Heechul’s ribcage rising and falling under his ear.

 

Siwon is dreaming of seagulls and sand, and he wakes to Yesung standing beside him, features blurred by darkness, his nose prickling with the smell of stale cigarettes.

“Siwon-ah,” he says hoarsely, and his voice cracks. Siwon swings his legs over the side of his bed, kicking free of the sheets, stops.

“Hyung?” he asks, voice rough with sleep. Yesung sits next to him, and smoothes the sheet with nervous fingers that dance around the mattress before settling on Siwon’s knee.

“Hyung?” Siwon asks again, and Yesung slips off his jacket. His fingers drift higher up Siwon’s thigh.

“Lean back,” he says, and his voice sounds strange. Siwon’s bedroom is too quiet, and Siwon wonders when Heechul left. He lets Yesung push him down, and when he feels hesitant fingers on his pajama pants string he’s suddenly convinced this is a dream, because everything is too quiet and still and slow, a small palm pushing past his boxers and the way his hips stutter up into the touch and how Yesung wraps his tongue around Siwon’s pants.

“Jongwoon-hyung,” he gasps, and jerks up against Yesung’s hold on his hips as he comes. Yesung climbs over him, still fully clothed, shoves him back into his pants and straddles one of his legs, fumbling in his haste, breathing harsh, and kisses Siwon again, so hard their teeth clack together, rubs sloppily against Siwon’s leg. Siwon spasms under him, sensitive and gasping, and says it again, softer, “Jongwoon-hyung,” and curls his fingers around Yesung’s arms as he rocks up against him.

 

Siwon goes to church alone for two weeks. The third week, he skips, and hangs around the dorm until Heechul kicks him off the bed and he wanders into the hall just to walk almost smack into Yesung. His eyes widen like a deer in the headlights, and then Siwon remembers waking alone with sticky boxers and vomit rising, and he shoves Yesung backwards, suddenly angry.

Yesung falls back, stumbling to catch himself, and hits the door of the bathroom, finally sitting on the toilet to stop his pinwheeling. 

“Siwon,” he tries, but Siwon steps in and shuts the door, locks it, and then stops, momentum leaving him and he searches for words. “Siwon,” Yesung tries again.

“Shut up,” Siwon says, “just—just shut up for five seconds, just let me—”

“Sssh,” Yesung says nervously, eyes darting to the wall—the wall that the bathroom shares with Ryeowook, Siwon thinks, and feels his vision shake and a flush rise in his skin, notes with satisfaction that Yesung flinches from him when he storms towards him, and then gasps with surprise when Siwon drops to his knees and reaches for his belt.

“What—ahh, Siwon, what,” Yesung stops, and his hands reach for the counter and the wall when Siwon drops his head down and clumsily takes him into his mouth, jerking in pain when Siwon’s teeth graze him and then Siwon gets it just right and hollows his cheeks and his hair is mussed from wrestling with Heechul and his lashes are long and dark and his lips are swollen and Yesung moans, and thrusts up.

Siwon gags faintly and releases him, and then stares in horror at his reflection in the mirror, kneeling between Yesung’s legs with a bitter tang on his tongue and a bulge in his jeans.

“Siwon,” Yesung says desperately, and reaches for him, but he’s already gone.

 

He finds him on the beach with his thumb in the ocean and his pinky in the horizon, and everything else spread out in between.


End file.
